


A Single Bomb (in an arsenal of thousands)

by ChiaRoseKuro



Category: Bleach, Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fallout (Video Games) Setting, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Constipation, Event Fill, Genetic Engineering, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, Mentions of Conscription, Mild Gore, Misunderstandings, Moving On, Non-human characters, Past Character Death, Past Torture, Post-Canon, Relationship Study, Strangers to Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Kurosaki Ichigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21521113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiaRoseKuro/pseuds/ChiaRoseKuro
Summary: It's been a long and arduous journey for the Sole Survivor, Kurosaki Ichigo, in his quest to avenge his wife's death and his son's kidnapping - but he's found Orihime's killer, made his peace with Kazui on his son's deathbed, and now it's time to tie up loose ends. It was meant to be his final visit to the Vault where his new life began -But when Ichigo finds a strange man standing in front of his wife's stasis pod, it sets off a chain of events that neither he nor the stranger would ever anticipate.(wherein two broken people bond over ill will and far too much fighting, and somehow emerge a little better from it)
Relationships: Inoue Orihime/Kurosaki Ichigo, Kurosaki Ichigo & Kurosaki Kazui, Ulquiorra Cifer/Kurosaki Ichigo, background Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Rukia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	1. Scorched Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Having never played Fallout 4 for myself (thanks for the streams, pointers and patient answers to my incessant questions, [Suga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSugaPops)), and having never really attempted anything remotely Bleach-related before... there's probably inaccuracies here and there, but hopefully my frantic combing of Wiki pages, manga chapters and Suga's mind helped minimize that as much as possible. The second chapter should be out before the end of November, if all goes to plan, but - if you're not interested in homosexual relationships, romance that has a fairly rocky beginning, minor but offhand references to the Fallout universe (and main storyline) and casual violence, the 'back' button is there and at your disposal. This is pretty much my attempt at dipping my toe into two fandoms I'm passingly familiar with, so any rude comments will be summarily ignored (but concrit is most welcome, if that's what you choose to leave).
> 
> Special thanks to [Sloaners](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetlebee) for organizing the informal event on [Kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat)'s Discord server (Ichigo tops, which is exactly what you'd expect it to be), Suga for reading over the rough drafts despite knowing next to nothing about Bleach, and Elder Maxson in _Fallout 4_ for providing the quote that lends itself to the title of this story and its chapters.

* * *

There’s someone standing in front of his deceased wife’s stasis pod, and Ichigo’s not quite sure how he feels about that.

After all, he loves— _loved_ —Orihime, but he’d seen her get gunned down before his own eyes. The very first thing he’d done, when his own stasis pod had failed and he’d lurched out of its cold, stifling confines, was fumble hers open so he could see whether there was any life left in her.

She was undoubtedly dead, skin unnaturally blue and nothing reflected in her glassy eyes, but he’d closed them all the same. Unable to take her along for the long and arduous trip he knew would be ahead, he’d turned his back on her and stumbled his way out of the Vault—and though every step away from her tore at his heart, he’d persisted anyway. _I’ll avenge your death and the abduction of our son,_ he’d promised on her chilled corpse—

And though there’s nothing left of Kazui anymore, though he had almost forgotten the sound of her laughter or the scent of her favourite floral shampoo, Ichigo had returned to the Vault after everything had been said and done. Was it simply sentiment on his part? Or was there some other driving force behind it, some twisted echo of fate that was determined to throw one last wrench in his plans?

Ichigo stares at the man pressing a hand to his dead wife’s stasis pod, tightens his hand around the sword strapped to his back—but before he can unsheathe it, the man turns toward him. He doesn’t know _what_ sort of face he’d been expecting, really, but when he catches a glimpse of it…

The first thing he thinks is _radiation poisoning_ , because that’s the only thing that comes close to the brilliant green of his eyes. The second is _synth_ , because of the equally green lines that almost look like thin tear-tracks on his face, but no third-generation synth would betray its origins so obviously.

_What the hell?_ Ichigo thinks, but it’s not until the man blinks and opens his mouth that Ichigo realizes he spoke aloud. “Get _away_ from my wife’s pod,” he says over the top of whatever the man wants to say, but when he draws his sword out and levels it at the man—

“Why would you carry a sword around?” he asks in a peculiarly flat tone, and Ichigo’s so taken aback by it that he lowers the sword’s tip to the ground. “It’s illogical,” the man continues, never once adding any inflection to his voice, “when most of the threats in the outside world are faster and stronger than the average human.”

Ichigo feels like he should be offended by that, but what comes out instead is a brusque, “I don’t see _you_ carrying around a weapon.”

“Why would I when there’s nothing here to fight?” is the slow response Ichigo gets. “It’s not like there was anyone else until you came along,” the man says in the sort of bland voice Ichigo would expect from a pre-war weather reporter, “and I think I can outrun you easily enough.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t answer my question,” Ichigo says after a few seconds—because trying to fight a stranger is _probably_ not the smartest thing to do, even if the stranger _does_ look unarmed and mostly harmless.

“I thought it was obvious that this isn’t hell,” the man retorts, arching a brow.

“I didn’t _mean,_ ” Ichigo starts—but when the other brow rises to join the first on the man’s forehead, Ichigo scrubs his free hand across his face and sighs, “Okay, why’re you in this Vault to begin with?”

Something flickers in the man’s eyes at his question, but it’s too fast for Ichigo to figure out what it is. His silence lasts for longer, though, and Ichigo’s just about to give up on getting _any_ sort of answer when the man murmurs, “I don’t see why I should answer you.”

“Is that so,” Ichigo replies flatly.

“You don’t own this Vault,” the man says, even though nothing Ichigo has said so far could be seen as _encouragement_ of any sort. “Granted, you mention that this woman is your wife, but she is evidently—”

“Are you _sure_ you want to go there,” Ichigo interjects, teeth bared in what a blind person might deem a smile.

“— _dead_ ,” the man mercilessly continues, eyes boring into Ichigo’s. “She has very evidently _been_ dead for a _while_ —”

“Shut the _hell_ up before I silence you permanently,” Ichigo snarls, taking a menacing step forward—

“But will killing me bring any closure to you?” the man asks in his infuriatingly level voice, and Ichigo barely manages to stifle his scream behind his clenched teeth in time.

Because he’s talking about Orihime like she’s just a failed experiment, like she’s just another victim in the unfortunate but ultimately meaningless Vault conspiracy that Ichigo had uncovered while he’d searched for Kazui. He’s talking like the life he’d shared with her meant _nothing_ now that she was dead, that _none_ of his sentiments mattered for all that she’d been the best thing in his life until she’d given birth to their son and his family had grown by one, and it’s…

Ichigo has no family left to him anymore—no wife, no son, no sisters and no silly goat of a father—and to have that rubbed in his face by a complete _stranger?_

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you _right now,_ ” Ichigo says in a cold, trembling voice. “Give me _one_ reason why I shouldn’t do it—because I don’t know you, but you’re saying an awful lot of _shit_ for someone who doesn’t know anything.”

The man stares at Ichigo as though he’s nothing of interest, but the silence barely has a chance to settle before he’s turning back to Orihime’s pod again. Uncaring of the growl that bubbles up from Ichigo’s throat, he brushes his fingers against the fine layer of dust on the thick glass separating him from her still, frozen face—

And in that moment, with the first hint of emotion appearing his face in a barely-there frown, the man lowers his gaze to his fingers and says, “I knew her, once.”  
  


* * *

  
“Call me Cifer,” the man says distantly, gaze fixed on what little is visible of the setting sun. It’s not a name that rings any bells in Ichigo’s head, but Cifer doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of response—if anything, his voice isn’t quite so heavy when he adds, “it’ll do for a name, and I answer to it readily enough.”

“Is it even your real name?” Ichigo asks sceptically, pausing in his whetting to glance over at Cifer.

It’s ambiguous enough that Ichigo honestly can’t tell—but when Cifer returns his gaze, it’s with a disgusted little huff that almost feels reminiscent of Ishida. “Does it matter?” comes the dry response, cutting through the faint nostalgia that’d welled up at his old friend, but Cifer’s gaze shifts back to the setting sun before saying, “So long as I recognize it’s me and you recognize it’s me too, Cifer will do as well as any other name.

“It’s not like names matter overly much,” Cifer hums in his peculiarly bland way, “though I suppose you’d be too attached to Kurosaki Ichigo to change it anytime soon.”

Even as Ichigo starts at his full name and almost slices himself open with his sword, Cifer turns and arches a thin brow at him. “I did say I knew your wife,” he points out somewhat reproachfully, “so would it be so strange that I’d know of you, too?”

“But I don’t know you.”

“So?” Cifer quickly retorts. “I said I know _of_ you,” he adds with the faintest of shrugs, “not that I _know_ you. It shouldn’t be hard to understand that distinction, Kurosaki.”

But for all that Ichigo clutches his sharpened sword a little tighter and twitches it in his grasp, Cifer makes no move to acknowledge his irritation—or, for that matter, acknowledge him at all, when he turns back to stare at the setting sun. “It’s strange,” he says, apropos of nothing, “that you would return here to convene with the dead.”

“So long as her memories are with me, then she wouldn’t _stay_ dead,” Ichigo forces through clenched teeth.

“Ah,” Cifer murmurs, “is that so.”

“Of course I had to get saddled with an ornery bastard,” Ichigo mutters under his breath—but when Cifer’s lips thin, presumably at the insult that _hadn’t_ slipped past his radar, Ichigo shakes his head sharply and asks, “But what about you, huh? You trying to _convene with the dead_ as well or something?”

“That would be pointless when they can’t say anything back,” Cifer replies.

“Then why were you even _there?_ ”

“Call it sentiment if you must,” is the response Ichigo gets, which is just as frustrating as it is utterly confounding. “But ascribing meaningless motives like this…

“If you wish to continue sitting here and wasting time,” Cifer says with another little shrug, getting to his feet and stretching his arms above his head momentarily, “then you can do that on your own. I have no more business here.”

And maybe it’d be the best decision to let Cifer walk away, he of the weirdly pristine white coat and horribly blunt words. It’s true, for all that Ichigo doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s no point to lingering in a Vault full of corpses and tainted memories. They’ll part ways, possibly never see each other again, and Ichigo can forget about the man who claimed to know his wife—

Except, well, Cifer could be actually _have_ memories of Orihime that Ichigo was never privy to. It’s not exactly _hard_ to get records of each Vault if one knows where to look, and after what he’s done to the Institute… it’d certainly be easy to pull up files that hadn’t been destroyed in the fallout, and Kazui’s parents would probably be of interest to anyone who knew of ‘Father’ beyond that facetious name. He could be faking his association with Orihime, but what if he wasn’t?

Ichigo’s met several people on his quest for vengeance, most of which were forgettable and a few of which almost made him believe in humanity again, but…

“Cifer,” Ichigo finds himself saying, and waits for the other to turn back slightly before saying, “you have a place to stay for the night?”

“I don’t see how that’s any concern of yours,” Cifer replies in a cool voice—and it might’ve dissuaded Ichigo from his original plan had he not seen the faintest furrow in between his brows.

Even so, he dithers until Cifer huffs sharply, and then Ichigo huffs out his own frustrated breath before he says, “Look, I live down in Karakura and it’s not like anyone else lives with me, so if you don’t want to sleep up a tree or something…”

“I,” Cifer says, drawing himself up, “am not a _monkey_.”

But for all his affront and the barbed words Ichigo exchanges with him after that—Cifer follows him down the mountainside willingly enough, which is good enough to count as a win.  
  


* * *

  
Ichigo never rescinds his offer of a place to stay—and for all that Cifer bickers with him on a near-constant basis, he doesn’t bother ghosting away either. He has very little in the way of possessions and almost never seems to need sleep, given that Ichigo has never _seen_ him occupying the bed he’s set aside for his impromptu guest, but…

That’s not the most concerning or annoying aspect of Cifer’s person, which is saying something for a man who can rile him up without batting a lash. From the markings he claims to be tattoos given to him upon his birth to his insufferable need to take at least two showers a day—Ichigo finds himself snapping at Cifer more often than not, and Cifer gives just as good as he gets.

“Just cut him up and be done with it, man,” Renji offers after Ichigo’s latest rant, rolling his eyes good-naturedly when Ichigo snarls at him. “What? It’s not like you _like_ the guy,” he adds with a shrug, turning back to tinker with the power suit he’s currently working on, “unless your ranting’s covering up some serious tsundere vibes.”

“I’m not a—what the _hell?_ ” Ichigo snaps, almost tossing his whetstone at Renji’s head in his agitation. “It’s bad enough that I have to stare feral ghouls in the face, knowing full well that they were human once, and cut _them_ up—”

“Huh, so you actually _do_ have a conscience beneath that tough-guy exterior,” Renji muses aloud, and Ichigo storms off before he can cut _him_ up for his troubles.

Because, really, why does he have to hear that from the guy with tattoos covering more than half of his body? And this was the guy who kept mooning after that one stupidly annoying reporter who kept trying to weasel stories out of him— _maybe I should just throw him at Rukia and see how that goes,_ Ichigo thinks, snickering to himself at the thought.

What he hadn’t been able to tell Renji, though—and what he could _never_ tell him, for all that Cifer’s attitude almost drove him to drink far too many times to count—is the strange sense of _something_ he’s been experiencing since Cifer’s been living with him. It’s not anything he can pinpoint and nothing he can really class as positive or negative, and it’s not like he _stays_ in his home all that often when there’s so many attacks on the settlements he’s trying to protect—

But having someone else hit the road with him or follow him home, being able to sit down to a meal with another person that isn’t some kooky time-displaced robot—Ichigo’s had companions on his quest, but he’s never _lived_ with them in his pre-apocalypse home. When their paths hadn’t aligned anymore, they’d parted ways without another word. When they’d run into each other again, it was all cursory nods and bland half-smiles.

Cifer, though…

He’s not the best-behaved travelling companion, that’s for sure. Oh, he’ll help secure the perimeters and is a fairly decent shot—but Ichigo has seen _radioactive waste_ that looks more appetizing than the things Cifer’s managed to cook on the go. He keeps going on detours to find a place to shower, even though very few places actually have _untainted_ water, never mind _running_ untainted water, and he doesn’t even have the decency to be _polite_ about how high-maintenance he is.

_Just cut him up and be done with it,_ Renji had suggested, and if it were anyone else then Ichigo might have thought about it. Feeling guilty about cutting up a defenceless ghoul that could barely make a scratch in his armour was vastly different from stabbing the deserving—and yet.

Cold nights that’re a little less cold with his back pressed against Cifer’s. Their seamless cooperation in fights, for all that they bicker on and off on the road. The briefest accidental brush of their hands, the bland smiles that get less bland with every enemy they take down together—

And then there were the stories, infrequently given but all the more precious in light of that.  
  


* * *

  
“When I think of your wife,” Cifer first says, apropos of nothing, “I always recall her smile.”

It comes out of nowhere, makes absolutely no context in light of the Yao Guai meat Ichigo’s hacking into smaller chunks, but Cifer keeps talking without once looking up from the carcass he’s skinning. “No matter what she saw, no matter how everyone complained,” he murmurs, barely loud enough to hear over the squelch of blood and viscera, “she did her best to seem warm and reassuring.

“Nobody usually cares about prisoners of war.” When Cifer looks up, Ichigo’s long stopped what he’s doing, but there’s only a wry almost-smirk on Cifer’s face as he adds, “Her behaviour was illogical, don’t you think? Caring for the enemy that eventually led to her death. Showing sympathy to the devils on the other side.”

If this had been during the uneasy few days he and Cifer had still be navigating around each other, Ichigo might’ve snapped at the perceived slight—but with the near-month they’ve spent together at this point, all he does is wait. It takes a while, in between Cifer getting the last of the pelt off the Yao Guai’s carcass and laying it aside for cleaning, but just when Ichigo’s about to return to his own task—

“Nothing about her was logical,” Cifer says, but there’s the faintest shadow of a smile on his face when Ichigo growls at the barb in his statement. “I’m not wrong—who else would try to befriend the enemy? Who would stand up for people that most of you would rather see dead?

“You were a soldier, were you not?” Cifer asks then, glancing down at himself and frowning in distaste at the gore staining his skin and clothing. It’s probably for the best that he misses Ichigo’s reaction to that, the involuntary scowl that always appears whenever he remembers his conscription period, and Ichigo’s face is back to disgruntled near-neutrality when Cifer looks up again and says, “You’re illogical too, travelling with someone whose nation drove yours to ruin.”

“From what I hear, it’s not like yours is any better,” Ichigo retorts. There isn’t much news of the outside world, not when there’s enough internal issues to last _anyone_ several lifetimes, but that doesn’t stop Ichigo from adding a waspish, “With everything that happened before Orihime and I were frozen, and then with what I heard happened after? It’s amazing we’re not all glowing mutants.”

“Ah yes—the vaunted radiation immunity,” Cifer murmurs then, but it’s too soft for Ichigo to pick up on the emotion behind it. He finds himself glancing over Cifer’s facial markings again, reminded of what he’d been told about them—but before he can wonder for too long, Cifer’s mouth twists ever so slightly and he says in a slightly louder voice, “We’ll all die in the end, immunity or not. With all the dangers that the world has to offer…”

“Like lacking sanitation?” Ichigo asks, and he’s hard-pressed to stifle his snort when Cifer’s brow wrinkles and his hands clench atop the pelt.

“ _Please_ do not remind me,” Cifer frostily replies, squeezing his eyes shut against the gore he’d been rather actively trying to ignore since they’d started—

But even after Ichigo’s laughed at Cifer’s expense and almost been blinded by Yao Guai blood to his eyes—when they leave what can’t be salvaged from the beast, they’re just a touch closer than they were before, and Ichigo has the faintest smile on his lips. Cifer isn’t Orihime and will likely never measure up to her, but…

It’s enough. It’ll _have_ to be enough, when he’d done his best to make his peace with her before he’d followed Cifer back up to the surface, and his mind lingers on his _own_ memories of her smile long after his own has faded from sight.  
  


* * *

  
If Cifer’s reticent about his wife, though, then Cifer’s stories about _himself_ are almost akin to pulling teeth out of his head. It didn’t really bother Ichigo at first, given how much the bastard riled him up and how he unintentionally—or intentionally, perhaps, but it was hard to tell with his poker face—projected an insufferable air of superiority…

But with each passing day, with every little moment that makes Cifer seem more like a person than an irritating blip in his wife’s life, Ichigo finds himself casting more and more sidelong glances at him. It’s only natural that he’d get curious about the guy—after all, what if he was secretly a collector of human skins? If someone else had kept him alive for his resistance to radiation, then wasn’t it conceivable that someone else might take an interest in him for the same reason?

It’d make sense if Cifer’s interest in him was simply mercenary with a side serving of convenient. After all, what were the odds that he knew his wife _before_ and could use that to lull Ichigo into a false sense of security?

Because, even beyond his resistance to radiation, there were his weapons. The standing he had with so many established settlements. Hell, everyone had accepted Cifer into their sanctuaries without a murmur of protest _because_ he travelled around with Ichigo.

There’s every chance that Cifer’s with him out of convenience—he’s ineffably pragmatic, after all—but he could also settle down or steal away into the night after robbing him blind. There’s no reason for him to suffer the indignity of infrequent showers or spend days alternating between walking, fighting and fulfilling his basic needs when he could do any _number_ of things now that Ichigo’s guard wasn’t as high as it was before—

And it’s that strange disconnect that makes Ichigo ask, as they’re leaving Karakura for Diamond City, “Don’t you ever get tired of this?”

“Of what?” Cifer asks in a perfectly level tone, unruffled as always as he picks his way across the crumbling bridge spanning Karakura’s makeshift south-eastern moat. “Do be more specific if you can help it,” he adds, but the reproach in his tone is tinged with the faintest hint of amusement.

This, too, is a change that Ichigo doesn’t know how to deal with. Having a travelling companion that was both high-maintenance and lousy at the most basic tasks was one thing, but having one that had shifted from being prissy and stone-faced to having a dry but still existent sense of humour?

“I did not ask you to clam up, or does your good health fail when it comes to your hearing?” Cifer asks then, which only further proves Ichigo’s point. “Really, _how_ do you survive when you’re incapable of focusing on the simplest of questions,” he adds with a faint sigh…

But Ichigo knows who the fighter in their duo is—and for all that Cifer has experience with handling guns, those who fight against them die from stab wounds more often than not. It’s strange, then, that someone more inclined to analysing corpses than creating them would travel with Ichigo instead of sequestering himself away in someplace safe and sterile. It’s stranger still that Cifer’s actually _visited_ a number of settlements that fit the bill but still insists on travelling with Ichigo.

So Ichigo’s a lot less irritable than he usually is when he huffs, “I _said_ , don’t you ever get tired of this?

“It’s not like we always have places to wash up or a roof over our heads,” Ichigo adds, before Cifer’s brows can draw together completely, “and you’re not even that good at defending yourself. Hell, I _still_ don’t know how you managed to get inside the Vault where we first met.”

It’s not exactly the subtlest of probes—but with the amount of time they’ve spent together, it’s not long before Cifer’s eyeing Ichigo, cool and speculative as always. “The lift still works,” he murmurs in a deceptively gentle tone—

“Yeah, I know the _mechanics_ of getting in there pretty well, thanks,” Ichigo interjects dryly, “but I mean—why that Vault? You couldn’t have _just_ gone there to moon over my wife, Cifer.”

“Wasn’t that what you intended on doing before you stumbled upon me?” Cifer fires back.

“She’s my _wife_ , you idiot, or do you think marital bonds are _that_ fucking fragile?”

“I wouldn’t know, having never married—”

“But never mind that,” Ichigo snaps, stopping in his tracks to glare at Cifer. “She’s not even _yours_ , and you even _said_ that you’re not from this country, but you were _there_ and—”

“You clearly lack simple comprehension then, Kurosaki, because I already _said_ that I owe her certain aspects of my life.” Cifer hadn’t said it in as many words or, perhaps, phrased it that way, but Ichigo finds it just a little harder to look at his flat green eyes when he sneers, “I don’t know how many times you require a reminder, but let me say it again.

“Your wife is _dead_.”

There’s no pity or compassion in Cifer’s eyes when Ichigo sucks in a sharp breath—because, no matter how much he’s heard it, his heart always throbs painfully at those four words. How could he ever forget the way she died as she’d tried to protect their son? How could he ever betray her memory when it only felt like less than a year since he’d last said _I love you_ to her?

But instead of blowing up like he usually does, Ichigo clenches his fists by his side and whips his head away. It’s illogical for him to be feelings like this, even after Cifer’s said the same phrase to him at least thrice before…

Except tears prick at his eyes, hot and all the more unwelcome for them. Ichigo had long made his peace, tenuous as it was, with the fact that he would never hear Orihime’s laughter or feel her arms wrap around his shoulders again—but acknowledging her death in the privacy of his mind was far easier than acknowledging it here, with Cifer’s merciless gaze boring into him.

“Kurosaki,” Ichigo distantly hears then. “Kurosaki, _look at me_.”

He knows he won’t like what he sees—is more than tempted to turn and walk off in a way he’s done several times before, when Cifer’s being too prissy or he’s said something insensitive—but there’s cool fingers pressing against his chin. It’s the first time Ichigo’s ever felt Cifer’s bare skin on his own, and given how meticulous Cifer is about letting _anything_ touch his clothing, let alone his _bare skin_ …

Can Ichigo _really_ be blamed for letting Cifer do what he wants with him?

There’s a moment, when their gazes meet, where Ichigo almost thinks Cifer’s about to laugh at the tears dripping down his cheeks. After all, it’d be _illogical_ to waste his bodily fluids like this, and Ichigo’s gearing up to say something biting when—

“Why do you bother with someone long gone?” Cifer asks. “She’s dead. There’s no need to shed tears over her when she can’t see you.”

But it’s the thumb brushing gently against one cheek that keeps Ichigo from replying, sharp retorts sticking in his throat as Cifer leans in with a little frown and switches to the other cheek. There’s a moment when it looks like Cifer will say something else, as he’s pulling back to frown a little deeper at his wet thumb, but…

“Let’s get moving before someone or something ambushes us,” Cifer says, as though he hadn’t just _wiped_ _Ichigo’s tears away_ , and begins walking again.

It takes a few moments for Ichigo to recollect himself after that—but when Cifer turns back to scowl lightly at him, he shakes his head and hurries after his… travelling companion? Friend?

(neither of them bring it up throughout the day, but when Ichigo goes to sleep for the night and leaves Cifer to take the first watch—Cifer doesn’t pull away when Ichigo lays down beside him, and Ichigo drifts off to the sound of Cifer’s low humming, barely louder than the light breeze in the trees)


	2. New Frontier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly more explicit instances of gore are scattered through the beginning and middle-end of this chapter. There's also a singular instance of implied sex (not explicit, surprisingly enough), but it's mostly blink-and-you'll-miss-it action.

* * *

It’s the little things that shift and fall into place as time goes by, for all that Cifer’s been with Ichigo for almost half a year now. They’d been—not _exactly_ distant, not when they spent so much time around each other, but they hadn’t exactly engaged in small talk either. Just the _thought_ of discussing a topic as mundane as the _weather_ with Cifer seemed…

“Are you _quite_ alright,” Cifer hisses, but Ichigo’s too busy snickering to register his irritation.

He _does_ register the sudden lack of noise from the other room though—and even as Cifer pins him with a completely unimpressed look, Ichigo sighs noiselessly and tightens his grip on his sword.

Perhaps it should bother him, that he’s thinking about chatting with Cifer when they’re in the middle of flushing out a Gunners stronghold, but it’s not like Ichigo’s thoughts have ever messed with his judgement. Even as he sweeps low to slice through a Gunner’s kneecaps, ducking away from the spray of blood and rolling smoothly out of the way so Cifer can shoot the other man bearing down on Ichigo, it’s not exactly a stimulating fight.

In point of fact, it takes roughly five minutes to sweep through the compound—and for all that people usually scoff at Ichigo’s weapon of choice, unable to fathom how a sword could compete with a gun, a fair few corpses bear stab wounds. It’s not as unbalanced as it was, not with Cifer’s aim improving from all the practice he’s gotten by assisting Ichigo, but there’s still a few Gunners Ichigo has to put out of their misery.

Because, as much as he _wants_ to let them bleed out, Ichigo’s not a big fan of blood puddles. Cifer’s certainly not, but there’s something about the way he steps delicately around the gore that makes Ichigo think—

Well. They’re certainly not the sort of thoughts he _should_ be having, considering the location and their mostly self-imposed mission, and Ichigo huffs sharply to himself before he returns to the task at hand.

There’s not much in the way of loot, not that Ichigo or Cifer require it. They have bottle caps aplenty, not to mention the interesting trinkets and excess meat they harvested from the odd beast, but Cifer hums all the same when he digs something out of a corpse’s pocket.

“I found hand sanitizer,” Cifer explains, when Ichigo glances over from his corpse with a light frown. “To think a Gunner had something like this…”

Had Ichigo not become accustomed to the slight inflections in Cifer’s tone, he might’ve mistaken his comment as an indifferent one—but it’s not his tone that gives away Cifer’s pleasure. It’s the smile on his lips and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, faint but visible all the same, that make Ichigo stare for longer than he usually would.

It’s not the first time Cifer’s smiled in his presence. It’s not even the largest smile Ichigo’s ever seen on Cifer’s face— _that_ distinction had been for the rudimentary shower system Renji had managed to rig up for most of Karakura.

But it’s still a smile on the face of someone who still rarely indulges in emotions—and after all the muddled thoughts going through his head?

“Is there something on my face, Kurosaki?” Cifer coolly asks, but Ichigo only swallows before jerking his head away.

If this had been an unusual occurrence, Cifer might’ve frowned and pushed for answers—but because they’re both a little prone to heavy thoughts, all he does is stare the back of Ichigo’s head. It’s probably disinterested, as Cifer’s gaze usually is, but Ichigo feels the weight of it for the handful of moments it lasts. He might’ve never cared about it before, but now…

The fragile mood dissolves when Cifer looks down to pocket the hand sanitizer, but the frown on Ichigo’s face is a little more pronounced than it should be as he returns to looting the Gunners’ pockets and stronghold.

And when they leave, bags weighed down with more products to sell than keep, Ichigo’s careful to maintain a small but visible distance between himself and Cifer.  
  


* * *

  
For all that Ichigo had been conscripted for longer than the mandatory period, he had always seen himself as more brainy than brawny. He _has_ to be smart, when he’s following in the silly old goat’s footsteps without explicitly doing so, and he was halfway through his postgraduate medical degree when the goddamn government had drawn his name.

_Congratulations, Kurosaki Ichigo,_ the officer that’d knocked at his door may have well said, _you’ve won the nation’s lottery._ It wasn’t mandatory beyond two or three years, not in the way other nations were keeping their recruits for as long as they proved useful, but as soon as they’d realized how steady his hands and mind were…

He’s good in a fight—he wouldn’t be alive if he wasn’t—but Ichigo’s always thought he was better when his focus was turned inwards. Staying cool in the moment, strategizing before charging in… and now, settled into his threadbare couch as disjointed humming mixes with the sound of running water, Ichigo glances down at his palms and turns them over.

Because he’s noticed it for a while now, this strange feeling welling up within him whenever his thoughts turned to Cifer. The more Ichigo tried not to think about him, the more his mind shoved him in that direction—and things only seemed to go downhill from there.

Objectively speaking, there’s nothing _wrong_ with thinking about Cifer. Given that they’ve spent the better part of a year together, now, Ichigo would naturally think about his wellbeing. He couldn’t have some deadweight dragging him down when he’s spent so long navigating and—most importantly of all— _surviving_ this wasteland, so it’s… beneficial. Necessary, even, to consider Cifer’s needs and wants when he’s stocking up for the next expedition out of Karakura.

But for all that he tries to rationalize it in his mind…

“Is there something wrong?” a mechanical voice asks right behind him, and Ichigo has to take a few moments to calm his racing heart before he can turn to face Zangetsu. The eccentric robot only floats in place while Ichigo scowls at it—but before he can turn back and dismiss it entirely, it (he?) adds, “You’ve been quite inactive for at least five minutes, Master Ichigo.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me _Ichigo,_ ” he hisses right back at it—but Zangetsu is just as unaffected as always, the damnable hunk of metal.

And of course, the next words out of it are, “Master Ichigo, your heart rate is quite unusual for all that you have been inactive. Have you contracted a disease, by some chance?”

Ichigo’s about to open his mouth and snap that he’s _not_ , thanks, because everything’s just _fine_ and he’s just—waiting for his turn in the shower, of _course_ he is. He’s just about to say as much when he hears a splutter mid-hum and then a self-conscious snort that could almost be _laughter_ , and—well.

“Master Ichigo, your face is going red,” Zangetsu helpfully supplies.

“Say it a little louder, maybe Cifer didn’t hear you,” Ichigo mutters under his breath, and spends the next minute wrestling with the damn bot when it tries to take his words _literally_.

But when the minor scuffle’s over and done with, new gouges torn into the already-shabby couch and Zangetsu looking a little more battered too, Ichigo kneads at his furrowed brow and mumbles, “Maybe I _have_ contracted a damn disease—who knows at this point.”

It’s illogical, that much is obvious. Whatever’s fucking with his mind when it comes to Cifer is _definitely_ abnormal, because—when did Kurosaki ‘One Protector’ Ichigo keep a companion around? Not to mention one that kept bitching about cleanliness, _still_ couldn’t aim right half the time and had a resting bitch face to put all other resting bitch faces to shame…

“Master Ichigo,” Zangetsu says, and Ichigo shakes his head roughly so he can refocus on the bot.

“What are your thoughts on Cifer?” Ichigo asks, only realizing his mistake when the words had already been said—

Honestly, though, Ichigo had thought Zangetsu would either refuse to respond or ask for clarification. It’s not unusual behaviour, not when the mad old bot had been on its own for decades and struggled to understand the simplest of statements at times—except it only pauses for a moment before its mechanical voice comes to life.

“Cifer—a sole name, likely a pseudonym,” Zangetsu intones, arms still instead of waving around gently. “Appears to be younger than Master Ichigo, with mixed Asiatic-European features—”

“Those are _facts_ , Zangetsu,” Ichigo cuts Zangetsu off impatiently, “but what are your _thoughts_ on him?”

“He has no bearing on my purpose, Master Ichigo,” Zangetsu immediately responds, “beyond the extra cleaning I must attend to.”

_I’m only a robot,_ Zangetsu doesn’t say, but Ichigo sighs heavily through his nose and stares up at the ceiling all the same.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Zangetsu’s had been one of the newer Mister Handy models when he and Orihime had purchased him, enamoured—on Orihime’s part—by its range of services and its flexible self-improvement module, but there’s only Ichigo left. Forced to wander on its own for the better part of two centuries, patiently waiting for its family to return…

What purpose _did_ it have in passing judgements on others when there was nobody else to pass judgement _on?_ Ichigo sighs through his nose again, brings a hand up to card roughly through his hair, and mutters, “Forget about it, you wouldn’t understand anyway.”

“Have I offended you, Master Ichigo?” Zangetsu says a few moments later, instead of floating away like it usually does. “Perhaps,” it adds in an oddly… _hesitant_ manner, “you are referring to Cifer’s status as a—”

“Person offended by gossips discussing him behind his back?” an incredibly cold voice interjects.

“I expected—better of someone like you, Kurosaki,” Cifer continues, voice muffled slightly by the towel he’s vigorously scrubbing over his hair, but Ichigo blinks at the slight pause in his voice. If it’s meant to mean anything significant, though, Cifer certainly doesn’t show it when he adds, “I see that I’m still not trusted.”

It’s hard to read anything beneath the frigidness of his tone—but for a single moment, Ichigo’s almost convinced Cifer’s… _hurt_ by what he heard. He hadn’t even noticed the water switching off or the clatter of the bathroom door, too occupied with sorting through his thoughts and Zangetsu’s less than helpful responses, but now…

“Look, I can explain,” Ichigo begins, sitting up and turning to face Cifer. “It’s—”

“Did I _ask_ for an explanation?”

There’s only the soft whirring of Zangetsu’s power source as Ichigo stares at Cifer, mouth strangely dry—

But then Cifer’s turning away with a sharp shake of his head, whispering something too softly for Ichigo to hear.

Ichigo doesn’t move as Cifer makes his way to his room, doesn’t so much as twitch when the door slams—but when Zangetsu floats towards him, he shakes his own head before he stands.

_Maybe he’s feeling jittery,_ Ichigo eventually rationalizes—after all, they’ve rarely stayed for more than a week in one place, even if it _is_ Ichigo’s home—and mutters a distracted _good night_ to Zangetsu before he heads to his room.  
  


* * *

  
“Oi, Ichigo!” is the first thing Ichigo hears the next morning, loud and obnoxious and _far_ too close for his liking. “Wake the hell up, we have turrets to fix!”

“Didn’t you say Cifer was helping you with that?” Ichigo grumbles, shoving his threadbare pillow over his head. “What the hell, Renji, it’s barely even _dawn_.”

“Cifer?”

“You know,” Ichigo says around a yawn, peeking blearily out from beneath his pillow, “the guy who’s been with me for almost a year? Black hair, green eyes, weird green face markings—”

“I _know_ who he is,” Renji snaps, but it’s the hint of _something_ in his tone that makes Ichigo blink and abandon his pillow.

“Then why’re you bothering me?” Ichigo asks in a less sleep-roughened voice, brows furrowing when he notices the frown on Renji’s face. “What, he’s slacking off or something?” he adds, when Renji doesn’t answer him—

But he shakes his head the next second, turning away with a sharp sigh and a careless, “So it turns out you _didn’t_ chase him away, even after all your bitching.”

In the moments it takes for Ichigo to parse the meaning of Renji’s words, he’s already pressing a hand against the crumbling doorframe. “Isn’t it better this way, though?” he asks, tilting his head to glance back at Ichigo. “I thought you liked wandering on your own.”

Perhaps he would’ve agreed with that sentiment before he’d met a strange man by Orihime’s stasis pod, eyes cold in their melancholy as he’d stared at his dead wife’s face. Perhaps he might’ve agreed even a handful of months ago, before Cifer had brushed a thumb against his cheek and _something_ had softened in his gaze.

Perhaps, perhaps… but what was the use of hypotheticals now?

“Did you see him leave,” Ichigo snaps, too terse to be a question as he flings the covers back, but Renji only shrugs a shoulder.

“Try that bot of yours,” he says in lieu of ridicule—

Because it’d be well within his rights to, when Ichigo had grumbled and muttered about Cifer almost every instance before. He’d always leapt on every opportunity to smear Ichigo’s face in the dirt, but now…

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Renji offers with a lazy wave, but he’s gone before Ichigo can insult him back.

_Do anything stupid, huh?_ Ichigo finds himself thinking, in between tugging his pants on and yelling Zangetsu’s name. It’s sound advice, if a little hypocritical coming from someone as trigger-happy as Renji, but—

In this particular instance, with no sign of Cifer in the house or anywhere in Karakura?

“It’s too late for this old dog to learn new tricks,” Ichigo mutters to himself, and races out of Karakura behind Zangetsu’s enthusiastic lead.  
  


* * *

  
Ichigo had expected a vault or a bunker, some underground location familiar to Cifer that would allow him to lay low for a while—but the building that Zangetsu leads him to is as unmistakeable as it is very, very visible. “Are you sure he’s here, Zangetsu?” he finds himself asking, gaze sweeping over the metal monolith looming over them—

But there’s movement by the front door, a shadow that resolves itself into a pale face broken by two green lines—and Ichigo’s walking towards Cifer before he’s aware of it. Of all the places he expected Cifer to be, he would’ve never thought of Med-Tek Research… but here he is.

Here Cifer is, eyes cold and unblinking as Ichigo stops right in front of him, and only the whirr of Zangetsu’s power source disturbs the silence between them.

There isn’t any surprise in Cifer’s eyes—only an aching, bone-deep weariness, and something else that Ichigo can’t readily identify. He’s not even sure he _wants_ to know, when Cifer’s gaze sweeps over him in the moments before he turns silently away, but he follows anyway. Zangetsu’s more than content to patrol the premises, as quietly curious as a Mister Handy can ever be in the face of a Pre-War relic, so Ichigo leaves it be.

It’s not until they’ve gone through a few dilapidated rooms that Cifer speaks, though, and even then it’s a strangely heated, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“What, and just let you run off into the sunset?” Ichigo shoots back before he can stop himself.

“Wouldn’t it be easier that way?”

It’s a question that makes no sense, much like their journey or their destination, but Cifer pauses by a cage and says, “I am not _deaf_ , Kurosaki, and neither am I stupid. Even though your wife is long dead—”

“For fuck’s sake, Cifer, we’ve _talked_ about this—”

“—you still cling stubbornly to her memory!” Cifer says over him, green eyes ablaze with emotion.

“How many times must I tell you? She is _gone_ , departed to a place where none of the living can touch her, and it’s time you remember that.” It’s delivered in Cifer’s usual brand of blandness, cold and direct in a way Ichigo’s never seen anyone else achieve, but what he sees all too clearly in his eyes now is…

“Bitterness.”

“Pardon me?”

“You’re—why do you care?” Ichigo scrubs a hand over his face, all too aware of Cifer’s carefully neutral expression, and snaps, “For someone who used to talk about my wife so damn much, you sure want me to forget about her easily!

“It’s almost like you’re _jealous_ I still care,” Ichigo huffs, irritable and all the sharper for it—

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Even as Cifer twitches visibly at his words, Ichigo takes in the rusted bars cages bracketing them and sees, for the first time, the bones slipped into equally rusted shackles. They’re too large to be a monkey, too distinct not to be anything but human, and…

“You know why all these skeletons are here.” When Cifer only arches a brow at him, Ichigo scowls and adds, “You met my wife in Med-Tek, didn’t you?”

“As I said, we were prisoners of war,” Cifer murmurs, “and she was unfailingly kind.

“But it was because of people like me that your country had your wonder drugs—and she never told you, did she? That the part she played might be worse than yours.” Cifer steps into an open, empty cage and brushes his fingers against red marks—

And it doesn’t take long at all for Ichigo to realize it’s _blood_ , streaked in a crude tally near long-rusted manacles.

“No matter how she tried to help us,” Cifer whispers, hair falling forward to hide his expression, “no matter how much she apologized—it doesn’t change who we were and what purpose we served for your nation, Kurosaki Ichigo.”

In that dingy corridor, surrounded by the bones of Cifer’s fallen comrades and the remains of those unlucky enough to ghoulify before they’d died, Ichigo learns Cifer’s longest tale yet. For all that he talks more than he’s ever done before, there’s still gaps here and there in his story—but it’s not hard to fill in what he doesn’t say.

Constant experimentation. Conditions worse than pigs led to the slaughter. Being forced to live in the overwhelming face of death, misery beyond a few dim sparks—and then, the bomb.

“I had been so certain that I’d die—so sure that it was over.” There’s only the slightest quaver to his voice, but Ichigo still sees a droplet splash onto the scuffed ground. “Do you know what it’s like,” Cifer hisses out, whipping around to pin Ichigo with faintly red-rimmed eyes, “to feel your heart beat on no matter how much you tell it to _stop?_ ”

A single tear leaks from the corner of one eye—and this time, it’s Ichigo’s turn to smooth a thumb against the arch of Cifer’s cheekbone. He almost expects Cifer to shove him away, cold and aloof for all that he’d just told the equivalent of a sob story… but he freezes beneath Ichigo’s hand instead.

“Maybe I don’t know,” Ichigo says after a few breathless moments, fingers still pressed against Cifer’s cheek, “but I’ve never…”

_Never let someone get so close after Orihime left me,_ Ichigo can’t force past the block in his throat. _Never thought I would feel anything like what I felt for my wife again_.

It’s disloyal to Orihime’s memory, hurts like steel claws digging into his heart—but it’s as freeing as it’s painful, to acknowledge the welter of emotions he’d tried so hard to suppress, and his other hand comes up to cradle Cifer’s other cheek.

He should be apologizing, pulling away and leaving—he should be doing _anything_ but leaning in—

But Cifer’s pupils only flicker once before he closes his eyes… and for all that Ichigo doesn’t tighten his hold, he doesn’t bother pulling away. His lips are thin and a little cool, but it’s not an unpleasant sensation—if anything, it’s _comforting_.

How Cifer—clean freak extraordinaire, apathetic to the exclusion of most things beyond disgust and a self-confessed _synth_ —manages to _do things_ for Ichigo is just…

“I can hear you thinking,” Cifer murmurs against his lips. “Stop that already.”

And in the face of that, who’s Ichigo to argue?

_Forgive me, Orihime,_ Ichigo thinks—but he angles his face to better slot his lips against Cifer’s, slides a hand to the back of his head, and kisses him until he almost runs out of air.  
  


* * *

  
The trip back from Med-Tek takes less time than the trip there—or, perhaps, it’s Cifer’s presence that makes it seem so. Ichigo doesn’t do anything beyond what they’ve done before, not when they’re on the road and attacks from raiders, feral ghouls and other enemies are still a distinct possibility, but…

When Cifer takes the first watch, as he always does, they’re pressed a little closer together than they ordinarily would. It’s not just limited to that, either—for all that Zangetsu is a constant, hovering presence around them, there’s still moments when Ichigo catches Cifer’s eye and sees the faintest of smiles lingering on his lips.

Then there’s the slightest brush of their hands. Shoulders bumping companionably against each other. Skinship from a person that obsessively washed his hands whenever he so much as _looked_ at filth, but who plucked leaves from Ichigo’s hair and straightened his shirts without a murmur of protest, and—

It’s stupid and childish, a sensation he hadn’t felt even with _Orihime_ , but they’ve barely stepped foot in Karakura when Ichigo vices a hand around Cifer’s wrist. A few impatient tugs, a shared glance that does nothing to hide either of their feelings—and it’s no time at all before they’re slamming the door in Zangetsu’s face.

“Kurosaki—”

“ _Ichigo_ ,” he snarls in between one kiss and the next, pressing Cifer back against the door and shoving their bodies together. “Don’t—I need you to—”

“Ichigo,” Cifer says, distorted and barely audible between their lips, but Ichigo shoves them back together so violently that he almost splits Cifer’s bottom lip open. “No, Ichigo, _listen_ ,” he tries again—

But it’s not until he bodily shoves Ichigo back that Cifer manages to snap, “It is broad daylight, there are no locks on your front door and you plan to fuck me _here?_

“At least relocate to one of our bedrooms, for goodness’ sake,” Cifer mutters under his breath, stalking off—but it’s not a complete rejection, like Ichigo had initially thought it’d be.

And with that sort of nonverbal encouragement…

It’s the work of a moment to stride forward and drag Cifer after him into the master bedroom—which has both a comfortable bed _and_ a lock on the door. Granted, the lock does nothing when it comes to keeping out Renji or any other enterprising individual with a spare bobby pin, but it’s not as though Cifer needs to know that.

When they’d been dancing around each other for the better part of two days—or a few months, if Ichigo’s starting from the moment his distant interest became something _more_ —semantics like doors with locks and the location just don’t measure up. If it wasn’t for Cifer’s protests, he mightn’t have even _bothered_ with such semantics to begin with.

So it’s probably for the best that Cifer doesn’t shove him away this time, when Ichigo wraps his arms around Cifer’s shoulders and presses up against him. If anything, he relaxes just a smidgen in Ichigo’s arms, feathery black hair half-hiding his delicately flushed cheeks, but it’s not long before they’re fully exposed and Ichigo’s pressing kiss after kiss to them.

“Sentimental fool,” Cifer huffs, but not even the derision in his words masks the fondness in his tone.

**_Your_** _sentimental fool, if you’ll have me,_ Ichigo doesn’t dare say, and presses their lips together again.

It’s awkward kissing like this, though, Cifer’s neck stretched uncomfortably as they lean against each other back-to-chest, but the way Cifer turns to rectify the situation is both smooth and utterly erotic. He’s always been economical with his movements—but there’s a sort of grace to them too, and even the way he falls against the bed when Ichigo pushes him onto it is enthralling.

Flushed and kiss-dazed, with his shirt rucked up to expose porcelain-white skin and his hair fanning out against the pale cream sheets…

“Are you going to just _stand_ there,” Cifer begins testily—

But Ichigo’s already kneeling on the bed by the third word, arms bracketing Cifer’s head by the fifth, and whatever he has to say next is swallowed in another hungry, demanding kiss.

There’s the urge to rip Cifer’s clothing off and fuck all the dry sarcasm out of him—but beneath that is the thrum of satisfaction, and that stays his hand somewhat. The contentment in knowing that his feelings, nebulous as they were even just a few days ago, were returned… the fulfilment in feeling Cifer’s willingness to go along with wherever this goes, for all that he makes disparaging comments here and there… it’s intoxicating, and the need to _take_ and _claim_ sings in his veins.

Ichigo had loved Orihime with all his heart when they were together, so sure that they’d spend the rest of their lives in their new home with two or more children and their Mister Handy…

But for all that the person beneath him isn’t his wife—is probably the _furthest_ he could get from his wife, in fact—Ichigo’s hard and leaking in his pants, and the hand that presses against Cifer’s pants finds him in just about the same condition.

“Well, Cifer?” Ichigo asks a little breathlessly, for all that he was trying to steal the air from Cifer’s lungs just seconds ago. “You gonna just lie there?”

It’s mostly panted in jest, a little bit of teasing to reflect Cifer’s last question, but there’s only a strange but familiar calmness in Cifer’s eyes when he says, “Ulquiorra.”

It takes a few heartbeats to sink in, but then—

“Cat got your tongue?” Cifer— _Ulquiorra_ —murmurs, lips curving ever so slightly upwards in a smirk.

And with _that_ provocation thrown so boldly in his face… well.

“What, you calling yourself a cat now?” Ichigo replies, arching a brow as Ulquiorra’s smirk fades, and promptly shoves his tongue down Ulquiorra’s throat.

There’s not much in the way of teasing or mockery after that, words giving way to sighs and gasps and moans. It’s as much a challenge as it is a joy to coax noises out of Ulquiorra, composure fracturing and then shattering beneath Ichigo’s tongue and teeth and hands.

Neither of them know what they’re doing, something that becomes increasingly evident as they move from kissing and touching to something _more_ —but does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things? When they’re both spent, Ichigo half-collapsed atop Ulquiorra and breaths fanning across each other’s faces…

“I’m glad.” At Ulquiorra’s arched brow, Ichigo huffs bonelessly against his face and mutters, “That you. That you’re still here. Alive.”

It’s not the most eloquent of confessions—and would most likely rank as the _least_ smooth thing Ichigo’s ever said in his life—but Ulquiorra blinks at him for only a moment before his cheeks go entertainingly pink. “Idiot,” he says in his usual waspish tone, but it barely even stings.

And when Ichigo angles his face up in a silent request for a kiss, Ulquiorra only hesitates a single moment before he closes the distance between them.  
  


* * *

  
Things don’t magically resolve themselves from there—Ichigo still knows little about Ulquiorra’s life before he became a synth, and even _then_ he barely knows much about the process, or the blank period between then and their coincidental meeting in that Vault. Road trips are still as arduous and irritating as ever, especially since Ulqiuorra practically _demands_ a shower if they move anything beyond the occasional impassioned kiss—

But Ulquiorra never makes any move to strike out on his own, and Ichigo never bothers discussing their two-man arrangement. Maybe, in some distant future, they’ll quietly inform Renji or any of the few people Ichigo’s on vague speaking terms with, but for now…

Orihime is dead. Kazui is dead. The only remnants of his pre-war life are Zangetsu and his crumbling home—and maybe it’s not ideal, but it’s also not completely hopeless either.

“Are you going to dawdle forever?” a cool voice asks from the door. “I would prefer if we reached Diamond City _before_ nightfall, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Ichigo fires back, smirking as he looks up and catches Ulquiorra rolling his eyes. “After all, it’s not like there’s a curfew there or anything.”

“Hurry up,” Ulquiorra says anyway, as though Ichigo hadn’t said anything at all—but when Ichigo rises and passes by him, he doesn’t move aside or turn his head away.

_Yeah, it’s not exactly ideal,_ Ichigo thinks to himself, shouldering his backpack and bumping his shoulder against Ulquiorra’s as they exit their house, _but it’ll do._

And in the shadow of Karakura’s walls, Ulquiorra offers him a brief smile before they set out.

**Author's Note:**

> Potential archive warnings include: Graphic Depictions of Violence (there's instances of gore and vague allusions to fighting, but I don't know if it's enough to count as 'graphic' depictions of violence) and Major Character Deaths (Inoue Orihime is long dead before the story begins, but she figures as more of a major supporting character thanks to her relationship with Ichigo).
> 
> For further author notes and other things related to this fic, feel free to check out my [blog](https://chiarosekuro.wordpress.com/). Alternately, potential prompts and other sorts of inspiration can be found on my [Tumblr](https://chroku-n.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chroku_n/) if that tickles your fancy instead - or, if you'd like your own shiny new oneshot, you can request one from me [here](https://chiarosekuro.wordpress.com/commissions/).


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